


Love at First Sting

by glorious_spoon



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Misogyny, Monsters, One-Sided Attraction, Pining, Possibly Pre-Slash, Rescue, Violent Thoughts, steve is a decent person and billy doesn't know how to cope with it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-28
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2019-06-17 11:17:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15460185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glorious_spoon/pseuds/glorious_spoon
Summary: Someone is carrying him. He’s slung over a broad, bony set of shoulders like a sack of flour, and it’s dark, and someone is carrying him through the woods.Or: Billy Hargrove finds himself on the receiving end of a rescue he's not sure he wants.





	Love at First Sting

He comes awake slowly, facedown, head hanging, cheek pressed against warm cloth. His legs and left arm are dangling, and the surface beneath him is jolting and rolling, like he’s moving. A warm arm is wrapped under his knees, fingers gripping his right wrist. His whole body feels like it’s made out of lead, thick and sore and heavy. When he peels his eyes open, he gets a vague impression of dark trees slicing through the moonlight, sticks crunching underfoot.

Someone is carrying him. He’s slung over a broad, bony set of shoulders like a sack of flour, it’s dark, and someone is carrying him through the woods. The last thing he remembers was the bonfire out by the lake, taking a hit of something and wandering out into the trees, and everything after that is a blank.

He has no fucking clue what happened, how the fuck he got here. That alone is enough to send a jolt of fear through him, sick and sharp. If his dad— if _Neil_ —

“Fuckin’,” he slurs, trying to pull away. Doesn’t manage much other than a weak twitch before the fingers tighten. “Motherfucker. Let me go. Fuckin’ kill you.”

“Shut up,” snaps a voice right next to his head. A familiar voice, but it takes Billy a second to place it. “Hold still, or I’m gonna drop your heavy ass onto a rock face-first.”

Harrington. That’s Steve Harrington.

“I _told_ you we should have left him there,” says another voice, and then there’s a grunt, a cracking of sticks, a stumble. “Ow! What was that for?”

“We’re not leaving him,” someone else says, and Billy blinks, squints into the darkness. All he can see from his angle is the ground jouncing along beneath him, Harrington’s denim-clad legs and white sneakers flashing pale in the moonlight, but it doesn’t matter. He knows that voice. That was Max.

What the _fuck._

“Come on, it’s like a mile back to the car— Steve, can you even carry him that far?”

“Yeah,” Harrington says shortly. “Keep it down, dickheads. You’re gonna draw them right to us.”

There’s silence for a minute or so, during which Billy rolls his head against Harrington’s shoulder, tries to get his limbs to move. Listens to the sound of his breathing, the rasp of it. The smell of Harrington’s expensive cologne and his own blood. Then the other kid— one of Max’s nerd boyfriends, the curly-headed little fuck in the baseball cap— says softly, “We could run ahead and get the car.”

“You gotta be kidding me,” Harrington mutters. He sounds slightly out of breath. “No.”

“Why not? Max can drive—”

“I can totally drive.”

“ _No_ ,” Harrington says again. “You think I don’t remember what happened last time?”

“Uh, we didn’t crash and we totally helped save the day?”

“I’ve been practicing,” Max adds.

“You took out like six mailboxes!” Harrington hisses.

“What do you know? You were unconscious for most of it.”

“Yeah,” the curly-headed dweeb adds. “From when that asshole pounded your face in. Ergo, we should leave him behind to be eaten. Maybe it’ll slow them down.”

“We’re not leaving anybody to be eaten,” Harrington says. “Come on. Pick up the pace.”

His shoulder jolts under Billy’s armpit, grinding and tender, and Billy lifts his head again, tries to jerk away. Arms still aren’t moving right, but his head is starting to clear. It hurts like a motherfucker, almost as bad as that time Neil slammed his face through a storm window, but it’s clear enough to think. He can feel blood dripping down his face, pooling in his sinuses. “Fuckin’ _put me down_ or I’m gonna kill you for real this time.”

“Shut up, dickbag,” Harrington says, and does not put him down.

“Yeah, Billy,” Max says from somewhere up ahead. “Shut up.”

“You little _bitch—_ ”

“Hey,” Harrington says sharply, “knock it off.”

“Or what?” Billy sneers. “You gonna spank me?”

He twists hard in Harrington’s grip, no more control over his body than a dying fish, but he feels Harrington stumble to the side, unbalanced, his fingers going lax, and then Billy slithers out of his hands to land hard on the soft forest floor. The impact jolts his head and leaves it spinning like a tape on a loose reel, the dark sky above him, the towering trees, leaves gilded with moonlight. Thundering pain in his temples. He feels like he’s been drugged, that syrupy lassitude, but whatever he took hasn’t done shit for the pain.

“...just leave him here, if he’s not gonna let you carry him,” he hears eventually. “He can’t walk. Obviously.”

“We’re not leaving him here,” Harrington says. Billy squints up at him. He seems as tall as a tree, silhouetted against the moon, his head turned away. Max is at his elbow, peering down at Billy with an expression he can’t understand. It looks angry, which he’s used to, but it also looks like something else, something completely alien. The curly-headed kid behind her is glaring at him.

“Shit,” Harrington says eventually, and digs in his pocket, coming up with a set of keys. Max reaches for them, and he holds them out of reach. “You be _careful_ , okay?”

“Yeah, fine, whatever.”

“We’ll be careful,” the other kid adds, adjusting the bulky pack strapped to his back. A long tube with a nozzle attached to it dangles over one shoulder. “I have the flame-thrower, so—”

“Jesus.” Harrington pinches the bridge of his nose. “Just— be careful, okay? And if you wreck my car, I’ll kick your ass. Got it?”

“I got it,” Max snaps, snatching the keys out of his hand. “ _God._ ”

“We’ll be right back,” the other kid says anxiously, and glances down at Billy. Takes a step back when Billy bares bloody teeth at him. It’s all he can do right now, but the little shit still looks like he’s about to piss himself. “You be careful, too, Steve. Don’t turn your back on him. It’s not just the demodogs I’m worried about.”

“Thanks a lot,” Harrington says, and ruffles his hair affectionately. “I can handle it. Get outta here.”

The kid hesitates for another moment before Max grabs his elbow and drags him off in what Billy assumes is the direction of the road. And then they’re alone.

“Steve,” he mumbles. “ _Kiiiinng_ Steve.”

“What do you want, Billy?” He sounds tired. Less animated, now, than he did in front of the kids.

“You think you can handle me? Didn’t do so hot last time.”

“Yeah,” Harrington says. “Maybe when you can stand up by yourself, I’ll worry about it. Now shut up unless you want them to hear us.”

 _Unless I want_ what _to hear us_ , he thinks about asking, but his tongue feels heavy in his mouth, and anyway, Harrington is moving away, leaning back against a tree. There’s a baseball bat dangling from a loop around one wrist, and he’s spinning it idly in his hands, like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it. There are nails sticking out of the end of it, dark gory stains on the wood. Billy’s pretty sure it’s the same one Max almost castrated him with a couple of months back.

He tongues the split in his lower lip, tastes blood. His skull is still ringing like a gong, and he wonders vaguely if Harrington was the one to work him over like this. Probably not. Not unless he got the drop on Billy, which isn’t likely, and anyway, he’s not the type. Too soft for that.

Harrington’s face is tilted up, illuminated in silvery light and stark shadows from the moon. Since he’s not looking this way, Billy watches him for a good minute: his hair falling loosely across his forehead, his soft eyes and pretty mouth. His full lower lip is caught between his teeth, and Billy thinks about touching it, about pressing close, about—

 _Fucking faggot_ , whispers a voice that sounds like his father’s, and he closes his eyes. “Hey, Harrington.”

It comes out slurry and thick, like he’s drunk. He opens his eyes to see Harrington peering down at him, expression suspicious.

“What,” he says, after a moment.

“Bet you give fantastic head. Pretty fucking mouth like that.”

Harrington’s pretty fucking mouth drops open for a second, and then he says, “Here’s a novel idea: how about you shut the hell up, and I don’t leave you here to get eaten?”

“By what? Fuckin’ squirrels?” Billy laughs, raspy and dry in the back of his throat, and closes his eyes again. “The fuck do you care?”

“I don’t,” Harrington says, and it’s flat and calm. Billy knows that he’s telling the truth, and also that he won’t leave no matter what the fuck Billy says to him, because none of this is about him, not really. It’s about Harrington and his savior complex, and that’s it.

“Such a fucking hero,” he mumbles, shutting his eyes again. He drifts for a little while, and then a sneakered foot nudges ungently at his ribs.

“Hey,” Harrington says. “Wake up.”

“You kick me again and I’ll break your foot off and shove it up your ass.”

“You’re concussed, you stupid asshole,” Harrington says mildly, and Billy hears the rustle of denim, soft footsteps on the moss, and Harrington crouches down next to him. “Don’t go to sleep.”

“Fuck you,” Billy says, but he opens his eyes again. Harrington is crouched over him, one hand on the bat. His knuckles are busted and bloody, and there’s blood on his shirt. Billy’s blood, or at least most of it is. Harrington isn’t moving like he’s injured, and he doesn’t look the least bit afraid. That makes Billy want to hit him, to grab at him and yank him down, to— he closes his eyes again. Opens them when Harrington flicks his cheek, hard. “Get the fuck out of my face.”

Harrington smiles at that, a sharp flash of teeth. It’s not a nice smile, not at all like the dreamy, dopey smiles he still aims at the Wheeler chick when he thinks she’s not watching, the ones that make Billy want to punch his perfect teeth down his throat. This smile is a lot like looking in a mirror. “Yeah? You gonna make me?”

Billy bats at him, but his eyes aren’t focusing right and his arms feel like lead and he barely catches the soft edge of Harrington’s stupid hair. Fine strands tangling on his fingers for a second before Harrington leans out of his reach. “Fuck _you._ ”

“You’re such a dick,” Harrington says, but his face softens, and he reaches down, tilting Billy’s head to peer into his eyes. Brow furrowed, his hand warm on Billy’s cheek, his thumb resting on his cheekbone. “Yeah, you’re definitely concussed. Just— look, just shut the fuck up, stay there, and don’t go to sleep until the kids get back with the car. You think you can manage that?”

It pisses him off, that look. Like Harrington can take care of him, like it’s his job to take care of Billy, like it’s his fucking _right._ Like he gives a shit about him, when they both know he doesn’t.

He opens his mouth to say that, or to say something worse, maybe— something about Wheeler, about how pussy-whipped Harrington is to still be panting after her, or maybe _so, hey, you fucking my kid sister, King Steve,_  something that really might make Harrington punch the shit out of him—

Before he can, though, there’s the snap of sticks, a low, wet, rattling growl from maybe ten yards away, and Harrington swears explosively under his breath, grabs the bat, and stands in a single smooth motion. He shifts his grip until he’s holding it like a weapon, every inch of him wired tense, and then something black and snarling and _huge_ charges out of the darkness toward them.

Billy hears a strangled yelp, realizes an instant later that it’s his own voice. Harrington doesn’t make a sound as he sidesteps and swings hard for the thing’s head, the spiked bat making contact with a wet, meaty _thunk_.

It howls, its whole face opening up like the head of some sick flower, rows upon rows of needle-sharp teeth like something out of a nightmare, its body all slick gray skin and bunching muscle. It’s fast as fuck, snapping for Harrington’s arm, then his leg, changing direction with lightning speed. Looking for a weak spot, Billy realizes. He pushes back against the tree, trying to get his feet under him, to stand. His belly feels like he swallowed a swarm of bees. Harrington is no kind of fighter, it’s just a matter of time before that thing takes him out, and then—

“Stay _down_ , you idiot,” Harrington snaps, and it takes Billy a second to realize that it’s aimed at him.

Another second to realize that Harrington does seem to know what the fuck he’s doing. He’s as smoothly graceful on the uneven ground as he is on the basketball court, wielding the bat like it’s an extension of himself as he sidesteps again, dodging back.

Drawing it away, Billy realizes abruptly.

“Yeah, come on,” Harrington murmurs, his voice low, his face bright and alive with fierce concentration. “Blue plate special right here, come and get it—”

The thing _springs_ , five, six feet in the air, an impossible height, its snarling maw open to close over his face—

And he plants his feet and swings like he’s hitting a ball out of Fenway Park. The creature goes flying, hits the ground in a limp sprawl of limbs, and doesn’t move. There’s a dent in its head— or whatever passes for its head, anyway— where the bat caved its skull right in.

Harrington is left standing on a hump of mossy ground, the bat in his hands dripping gore, and Billy is left staring at him like he’s never fucking seen the guy before.

Maybe he hasn’t.

Before he can get any farther into that line of thought, there’s the roar of an engine, screeching tires. Doors slamming and sudden footsteps, and then Max slams into Harrington like she’s trying to tackle him, the other kid a step behind her.

“Oh my God,” he’s gabbling. “Oh my God, Steve, we gotta go. We gotta go now, there’s gonna be more of them—”

“Yeah, yeah, calm down,” Harrington says, but there’s a note of relief in his voice. “Come on.”

 _Don’t leave me here_ , Billy thinks, with a sudden jolt of helpless fear that he’ll be sick to think about later. But that was a fucking monster, that wasn’t anything that was supposed to exist in the world, and there might be more of them. And he can’t move. He can’t fight. He can’t fucking— do _anything_.

Footsteps on the mossy ground, and then Steve Harrington is crouching down next to him, hand on his shoulder. “Let’s go, Hargrove.”

“Can’t fucking move,” Billy snarls, but he can’t quite make himself shrug Harrington’s hand off, either. _Don’t leave me here—_

“Jesus,” Harrington mutters, but he doesn’t let go. “Max, Dustin, hey. Somebody take this.”

He’s unlooking the bat from his wrist, holding it out. One of the kids— Billy can’t see which one— takes it, and then Harrington’s arm is sliding under his shoulders, hauling him upright. As upright as he can get, anyway. His legs feel like cooked noodles. He sags against Harrington, pushing his face into his warm shoulder, can’t even help it.

“It’s not that far to the car,” Max says quietly from his left.

“Good,” Harrington says shortly. “Let’s go.”

* * *

They make it to the car, and Harrington dumps Billy into the cramped backseat. After a brief, furious, whispered argument, Max climbs in afterward, kicking his legs roughly out of her way.

“I still don’t like you,” she tells him, yanking at the seat belt.

“Fuck off,” Billy mumbles into the upholstery, which smells expensive. He considers puking on it, just for spite. Considers that he’d be the one with his face in it for who-fucking-knows how long, and swallows back the bile.

Two more slams, and the seat in front of him shifts as Harrington adjusts it back, the engine starting.

“Dustin, I’m gonna drop you off first, okay?” he says, pulling out onto the road. The motion is a sick vertigo in the pit of Billy’s stomach even though he can’t see where they’re going. Just hear road noise under his cheek, Max’s knee pressed to his thigh where it’s sliding off the seat.

He really might puke.

“Are you sure that’s a good—”

“And you’re going to radio the Chief the second you get in the door,” Harrington adds. “Right?”

“Oh,” the kid says. “Right. Okay.”

“Good.”

“Are you sure you’re—”

“We’ll be fine,” Harrington says quellingly. “Right, Max?”

“My step-dad isn’t home,” she says, and jabs Billy in the leg with her knee, too pointed to be accidental. He curses under his breath and kicks back at her. Misses. Fucksake. What the fuck did he take at that party? “It should be okay.”

“As long as your psycho step-brother doesn’t freak out.”

“We’ll be fine,” Harrington says again.

“If you say so,” the kid says dubiously. “I still think it’s a bad idea.”

“Duly noted.”

The seat rumbles again as the car’s powerful engine accelerates onto the bumpy road, and Billy stops trying to keep track of anything at all.

He’s vaguely aware of conversation happening over his head, but he can’t be fucked to pay that much attention. He rouses a little bit when the car pulls to a stop in a well-lit, friendly-looking suburban neighborhood. A sudden gust of cooler air as the front passenger door opens, soft voices.

“—still think this is a bad idea, Steve, like, I cannot emphasize enough how fucking terrifying that dude is, and I don’t think he’s going to care that you saved his ass.”

“It’ll be fine,” Harrington says, softly insistent. If it was Billy talking right now, he’d already have the kid in a headlock, explaining the facts of _shut your fucking face_ to him, but Harrington doesn’t do any of that shit. “Hey. Dustin, man, I mean it. It’ll be fine. Go call the Chief. Okay?”

“Okay,” the kid says after a long pause. There’s a shift of cloth as he peers into the back seat. “Max, you okay?”

“We’re fine,” Max says, but it doesn’t sound sharp the way she usually does. “Get out of here, nerd.”

More grumbling, then the door slams, the engine starting up again. Max is saying something to Harrington, but Billy is concentrating too hard on not puking or screaming to pay much attention.

“...sure he’s not home?” Harrington asks. “Because I seriously don’t need…”

“...work, it’ll be fine…”

The seat cushion smells like Harrington’s cologne. It’s smooth under his cheek; leather or some shit like that. Fancy and soft, like Harrington himself. Billy drags his cheek against it, imagines digging his fingers in, clawing it to pieces.

“Take a left here,” Max murmurs, and his stomach swoops again as the car turns. Darker here, broken street lights and the rank smell of abandoned dumpsters coming in through the car windows.

“Here?” Harrington asks a minute later.

“Yeah,” Max says. There’s something brittle about the tone that Billy doesn’t have to be a shrink to interpret. Because Harrington’s car is clean and fucking fancy, and Harrington is always dressed like he walked off the cover of _Teen Beat_ , and the house he lives in probably doesn’t look a damn thing like this.

 _King Steve_ was born into fucking royalty, after all.

“Okay,” Harrington says, and Billy can’t get a read on him at all. “You’re sure your step-dad isn’t home?”

“His car’s gone,” Max says. “Come on. You’re going to have to help me, though.”

“Christ, okay, fine,” Harrington sighs, and cuts the engine. Footsteps on pavement, and the door next to Billy’s head swings open. “Come on, get out of my car.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Billy mumbles into the leather seat back.

“Are you always this fucking charming?” Harrington sighs, leaning down. His hands slide under Billy’s arms, hauling him out of the car, and Billy has to grab at him to keep from face-planting on the pavement. Harrington doesn’t even shove him off, just loops an arm around his shoulders and lets Billy stagger against him like they’re friends, like they’re something else, like the last time that they saw each other Billy didn’t give his best fucking shot at beating the dude to death with his bare hands. Like Harrington gives a shit about getting him home safe.

Three steps get them up to the front door, and Max must have her key because the next thing he knows they’re stepping into the cool, stale-smelling darkness of the front hallway.

“Couch?” Harrington asks softly.

“No,” Max says back, just as softly. “His room. If he’s still out here when his dad gets home—”

She doesn’t finish the sentence. Harrington makes a noise like he gets it anyway. “Okay. Come on, Hargrove. Almost there.”

“The fuck are you doing this for,” Billy slurs into Harrington’s shoulder as they follow Max’s soft footsteps down the narrow hallway. “Fuckin’ pussy.”

“Fuck you,” Harrington says tiredly, but he doesn’t let go as he nudges the door to Billy’s room open with one foot and hauls him into the cool, nicotine-smelling darkness.

“Fuckin’ _pussy._ After I beat your fuckin’ face in. _King Steve_. You must really want my dick.”

“You think you could stop being an asshole for like two minutes?” Harrington says, but he doesn’t sound much more than mildly annoyed. Like Billy isn’t even worth the effort to get pissed at when he’s not actively trying to kill someone. It itches at him, that calm indifference, gets under his skin, always has. Worse now that he’s seen Harrington fight, that blazing focus and brutally elegant violence. “Just try it out. See how it feels.”

Billy snorts into the warm curve of his neck. “You want me to kiss you sweet? Get on my knees for you?”

“Jesus Christ,” Harrington sighs, and tips him onto the bed, none too gently. “Sleep it off, Hargrove. I’m going home. Max, you okay?”

“I’m good,” Max says, and Billy peels his eyes open to see her standing in the doorway, watching him with that same odd expression from earlier. Beside her, Harrington glances back at him. Billy just looks at him through slitted eyes, his bloody hands and strong shoulders, the smooth curve of his throat. Thinks about getting his hands around Harrington’s neck and squeezing until he’s gasping panicked from the lack of air, and he thinks about putting his mouth there, dragging his lips and tongue over the skin where it’s soft and pale, and he can’t even tell which one of those thoughts puts the sick twist through the pit of his stomach.

“Hey, Harrington,” he mumbles.

Harrington sighs, something unfathomably tired about the sound. “What?”

“Told you,” Billy says, and lets his eyes slip closed. “Gotta plant your feet.”

There’s a silence that seems to stretch out way too long, but he can’t muster the energy to open his eyes. Finally, Harrington makes a soft noise under his breath, then says, “Get some sleep, Billy. Max—”

“Yeah.”

“Take care, okay? We’ll keep you updated.”

“Yeah, fine, whatever,” Max says as they step out into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind them. Billy listens to the sound of their footsteps retreating back into the living room, their soft voices in the silence, curls his hands into the rough sheets and just holds on.

 


End file.
